


What It's Like

by sam_erotica



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_erotica/pseuds/sam_erotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight, I'll tell him. And although my heart beats faster than hummingbird wings at just the thought of the words finally coming out of my mouth, I can’t wait anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What It's Like

I sometimes wonder what it’s like to be Chris. That combination of awe and confidence, the sweet, easy laughter and the thoughtful secrecy – being around him tastes like the best kind of drunk. It rings in my ears. I wish I had that.

And sometimes, when I am brave enough to let myself, I wonder what it's like to be inside Chris. In those moments, I wish I had that, too.

So, tonight, I'll tell him. And although my heart beats faster than hummingbird wings at just the thought of the words finally coming out of my mouth, I can’t wait anymore. I can’t wait to say it, can’t wait to see his face when I do. He might not say anything. He might walk away. But none of that really matters, because he might surprise me and say it back.

He might stare at me for long seconds, an unreadable crinkle on his brow. He might let slip the faintest hint of a smile around his eyes, maybe look nervously to the floor, maybe not look nervous at all. Maybe he’ll say “I know,” and step forward to begin to close the gap between us. Maybe he’ll say nothing except in the language of his breath on my eyelids as he folds me into his arms. Maybe he’ll reveal a hunger as strong as my own, and silently devour my lips the way I desperately want him to.

And I find myself hoping that hunger will carry us both away with it, lips pressed to lips, skin melting into skin, the poetry of our voices dancing in the air. My fingers on every inch of him. His fingers, tongue, everything, everywhere inside me. His ragged, shallow breath spreading over me like frost on a window as we collapse together, flushed and sticky and joyful.

Yes, tonight I will tell him.

But I'm too impulsive. I don’t call, I just appear on his doorstep late into the evening. His eyes consider me, questioning, then he just steps aside and motions me in. Almost as if I was expected, except for that question hanging heavy in the air between us.

He looks me over, taking in the sweaty hair sticking to my face and the black shirt, hurriedly and crookedly fastened, each button securely in the wrong buttonhole.

“You look like crap, what happened?” he asks, moving to straighten the lopsided fabric. He doesn’t ask why I came, only opens the shirt one button at a time, and then, one button at a time, closes it again, my eyes glued to his fingertips.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and everything else comes out with it. I hear myself say what I was afraid I never would - the longing, the hunger, the stomach-churning anticipation. And then, without thought, my lips are magnetically pressed to his, my hands on his arms, my tongue craving the taste of his lips. He doesn’t react. He holds his breath. He pulls back, keeping me at arms length.

I begin to regret. I am paralyzed by that same questioning look, his unspoken words echoing in my head. _Are you sure you know what you want?_ I blink, twice. _Yes_. My world narrows to just the blue of his eyes, the small opening between his lips, and his hands on my shoulders.

But when I take one involuntary step closer, my eyes locked on his lips, Chris doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything, he just pulls our bodies and lips together by the hair at the base of my skull, banishing all hesitation. He presses our hips into each other, hard and hungry, doorknob pushing unnoticed into my back. He fumbles with the same black buttons, amusement and lust and _Jesus, it’s about fucking time_ in his eyes.

And when I decide that I can’t wait, _can’t wait one more fucking day_ to know what it’s like to taste him, Chris just smirks, licks his lips. His fist is clenched desperately in my hair, hips gently thrusting. Later, when he tastes himself on my tongue he smiles and murmurs _So, this is what it’s like_.


End file.
